


cut your losses

by catbrains



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Guilt, Heavy Angst, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rescue Missions, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, basically misaki gets kidnapped by a rival gang and tortured as revenge for mikoto fucking them up, these tags make it sound horrifically graphic i promise it's nothing too bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 03:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10376769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: Mikoto Suoh has a lot of enemies.  Usually, after they try to face him, they run home with their tail between their legs - but every so often, some will come crawling back with the urge for revenge.And what better target than the one the King holds dearest?(Or, alternatively, Misaki is kidnapped by a rival gang formerly defeated by Mikoto, and the King is given an ultimatum.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my Tumblr @catbrains-writing (come talk to me! Or my main blog @kittycatbrains!!)  
> Not beta read, so sorry for any mistakes.  
> I started this aaaaaaaages ago, and never got around to finishing it until now. But, ultimately, this is the first MikoMisa fic that I've published! Which is surprising, since it's one of my oldest (and favourite) rare pairs.  
> But anyway, please let me know if you enjoyed it so I'll know to continue!

Mikoto is wandering alone down one of the less crowded streets of Shizume, heading back towards HOMRA with several new packets of cigarettes held in a bag in his right hand, when his phone vibrating in his back pocket interrupts his lazy train of thought. It is mid-January, early evening, and the snow on the streets has yet to melt so the slicing cold air hangs with it. Mikoto had left the bar early on a mission to track down a smaller gang stirring up trouble on the other side of the city, but his body temperature (heightened considerably by his aura) continues to attempt to oppose the winter. Cringing as the hand that had previously been seeking refuge in his jacket pocket is exposed to the air, he draws his phone clumsily from his jeans. The blue light of the phone screen is harsh in the dusk and it takes several long moments for his eyes to adjust so he can check the caller ID. Izumo. Mikoto stares at the screen for a moment, before its incessant vibrating reminds him that Kusanagi is actually waiting for him to answer.  
He swipes to answer the call and holds the phone to his ear, trying not to think about the fact that the last time Izumo called him, Totsuka was dead.  
“Hey, Mikoto?”  
Kusanagi’s voice over the phone is as even as ever, casual lilt carrying the words in a way that in any other situation would be relaxing. But Mikoto has known the man for years, since they were teenagers, and they've been through too much together for him to not immediately notice an underlying sense of anxiety. His mind, as ever, goes to the worst scenario first.  
“What is it?”  
Kusanagi barks out a laugh after hearing his tone, but it sounds inappropriate and somewhat forced. “No one’s dying, I promise.”  
Mikoto quirks an eyebrow. The joke is in poor taste, though he doubts the man intended it as such. “Then why’d you call?”  
“I was gonna ask if you knew where Yata was.”  
“Yata?”  
“He hasn’t come in today. I wouldn’t be worried - well, I’m not, really - but he’s not answering his phone. Kamamoto offered to check his apartment, but I figured I should call you first. Make sure I’m not interrupting some steamy date.”  
Mikoto considers informing Kusanagi that the closest he and Yata have gotten to a date has been a make-out session in HOMRA’s rec room while some action movie played in the background (that’s basically a cinema date, right?), but he bites his tongue.  
“I haven’t heard from him.”  
That statement brings Izumo’s laughter to a nervous standstill. There is a long beat of silence.  
“Since when?”  
“Last night at the bar. I last saw him the same time you did, unless you’ve talked to him since.”  
Mikoto hears a slight ruffle, and assumes that Izumo is shaking his head. “No...no. He said goodnight and then he left on his own. It was late.”  
Mikoto’s slow pace down the street draws to a stop.  
“What are you implying?”  
Izumo pauses, the only sound through the phone his deep breathing.  
“I can’t stop thinking about Totsuka.”  
Mikoto feels something like anger rising in his throat, but he knows it’s closer to anxiety. “What are you implying?”  
Izumo sighs deeply. “I’m not--I’m not saying anything. But, fuck, Yata’s just a kid. And, yeah, he can look after himself and I get that but I can’t help worrying. I feel like, with Totsuka, I didn’t worry enough. And look where that got us.”  
Mikoto lets the silence hang, watches his breath dance in the cold January air like the smoke of a cigarette. He finds himself craving one suddenly, but he doesn’t have a free hand to draw his open pack out of his jacket pocket.  
“I’ll go check his apartment.”  
His tone makes it sound like an offer, like something he’s willing to do to calm Izumo’s nerves, but they both know that there is now the beginning of panic coursing through Mikoto’s own veins. Misaki has always had such an effect on him, and more often than not he finds himself cursing the teenager’s innate ability to cause him such grief.  
Izumo makes a noise of affirmation, another rustle to indicate a nod. “Call me as soon as you find him,” he says, with an air of confidence that disappears like smoke in the wind the moment he continues, “And call me if you don’t.”

Mikoto hangs up the phone and breathes deeply, deciding after a moment’s hesitation that Yata is more important than his body’s craving for nicotine. He sets off again at a significantly brisker pace, turning off a few streets away from the bar and heading instead to Yata’s apartment, tucked far into the worse side of the city. He hasn't been there many times, since Yata basically lives at the bar, but he’s also aware that Yata’s financial situation is a bit of a sore spot. God knows how many part-time jobs the kid’s working to try and keep up with the rent, for no real reason other than a desperation to provide for himself, rather than rely on other people. Yata had been taught the rather harsh (and false) lesson in his life that relying on others always got you hurt, and Mikoto is always trying to encourage him to loosen his grip on that belief, but his efforts are largely in vain. Yata’s mistrust of people on any level deeper than the surface was ingrained in him, through pain and loss and regret, and no amount of encouraging was going to get him to let go of it. Especially not with the still-raw grief of Totsuka’s death in his heart.

It seems to get colder the further away from the shopping district Mikoto gets, as the buildings thin out and the streets grow broader - intended for vehicles, rather than slow-paced shoppers - but with a sense of purpose burning in his mind, he doesn't notice it as much as he had before Izumo’s call. He walks through alleyways and under footbridges, keeps his distance from the guys lingering under them with their hands shoved deep in their pockets, no doubt gripping switchblades. He doesn't have the time to get into a fight, especially not one that he can't end with an effortless wave of his aura. He can feel it itching under his skin, burning in a way that it hasn't since the evening of December 7th, and he knows it well enough now to know that it means ‘danger’. Anxiously, he chalks it up to his surroundings, to the guys holding nail-embedded baseball bats eyeing him from the alcoves of shuttered store fronts, but deep down he knows better. His aura is unsettled with the need to protect, to shield...and the knowledge that it is helpless. Something is happening. Someone is going to be hurt. And, as he pauses at the bottom of the metal stairs leading to Yata’s second-storey apartment, he can only selfishly hope that it is anyone else.

He begins to scale the stairs slowly, steadily, but his anxiety gets the better of him and soon he is taking them three at a time, leaping over the bannister as it angles around to save him a few precious seconds, and then he is stood at Misaki’s front door and time seems to freeze around him, like he's been plunged sixty feet into freezing water. The lock is broken, and there is a dull trail of blood dragging from underneath it.  
No.  
No.  
No. No. No.  
Mikoto is bursting through the door in a moment, but there is nothing he can do. He is hours too late already.  
Misaki’s apartment is only one room - two if you count the semi-divided kitchenette, three if you count the bathroom - and it is in chaos. Shelves formerly housing photo frames and books and DVDs are overturned, the small old-fashioned television smashed from some apparent impact with wires dangling it precariously from its previous perch atop a chest of drawers. The drawers are all opened, too, sorted through and their contents dumped on the ground, but Mikoto doesn't notice any of it, not really. Because the old mattress on the floor, including its single unwashed white sheet, is covered in blood, and there is a message spray-painted in purple on the wall above it.  
“CUT YOUR LOSSES, KING”  
What the fuck? Mikoto is lost too suddenly to immediately feel the rage that he knows is coming, and instead stares dazedly into the ransacked apartment. Is this revenge? Revenge. For something that he has done. Misaki is paying the price for something that Mikoto has done. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach, but before he can do anything he notices the note on the table. It looks so out-of-place amidst the chaos that Mikoto is shocked he didn't notice it before, but he approaches the table cautiously nonetheless. He snatches up the paper and begins to read.

“Red King. Or, rather, Suoh Mikoto. Did you really think you would get away with fucking with us?  
You tore us down. Thought you’d defeated us once and for all. Taught us a lesson good and proper, yeah?  
We don't play no fucking games like that.  
We remember. Bide our time. Act with more strategy that you HOMRA fuckers do.  
Bet you feel pretty fucking stupid right now. Don't worry; the grief’ll kick in soon.  
And then you can really feel like shit.  
But that's not really what we’re after. We’re after suffering in the broader sense. More shame-filled. More regret.  
We did consider that little princess of yours, but even we have standards. Besides, the other type of love is always more fun.  
Depending on how long it takes your stupid ass to realise what's happened, your boy here probably won't be dead. Maybe. Depends how loud the fucker is.  
All we’re asking, Mr. Suoh, is for you to cut your losses.  
Let us win and we’ll spare the rest of your boys. And the girl.  
But if you come chasing after us, you’ll find pretty boy here with his throat slit and a hundred men off to do the same to the rest.

Now, I want you to think long and hard.  
What are you willing to lose?”


End file.
